


From Ivy

by Klavier



Series: I, Too, Love Wisteria [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Atmosphere Exercise, Bad Weather, Complicated Relationships, I'm so fond of Mingyu it's sickening!, Kissing, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Semi-explicit sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klavier/pseuds/Klavier
Summary: Mingyu treats his sword like an extension of his own body, which is to say—with reverence, with grace.Jihoon wonders if he treats his lovers the same.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Series: I, Too, Love Wisteria [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063055
Comments: 23
Kudos: 75
Collections: WIP OLYMPICS: WINTER 2020/21





	From Ivy

**Author's Note:**

> Minor mentions of violence and past injury.  
> This is not historically accurate in any way shape or form, please squint!!

Jihoon extends his palm out flat. “It’s beginning to rain.”

That is an understatement. A gray drizzle has been clawing over the mountains in their direction all afternoon and now it laps at their heels. A dramatic change of light is taking place across the sky, periwinkle eaten by navy eaten by black.

Mingyu had spoken his hopes earlier, naively, that they could outrun it on horseback. Or that it would dissipate under the autumn sun. Jihoon had privately calculated their distance from the nearest storehouse and said nothing.

Now it’s clear. They won’t make it back to the castle in time. Faraway booms of thunder are already causing the horses to startle and kick up the pace erratically, leaving gouges in the dirt. Shelter is a mounting priority.

“Let’s hurry.” Mingyu casts despondent eyes at the sky. “To the eastern store house.”

He’s always looked the most youthful of the Hwarang. Here with the wind tearing his hair asunder, the backdrop worthy of an oil painting, he seems almost too young to hold a sword. 

Jihoon has watched Mingyu scream into the dying lungs of his enemies, spear lodged in their throats. He should know better. And yet—a part of him wants to offer comfort, honey-drizzled words or a warm hand on Mingyu’s thick forearm.

Jihoon digs both heels into his horse’s flank and says nothing. They shift from a trot into a run. Pines heady with the smell of an incoming storm whip past. Here, hours beyond the castle walls, the dirt is ripe and almost too soft for horseshoes to grab purchase. Mingyu’s cloak fans out behind him like blood spreading from an open wound.

They do not outrun the storm. Faint patters swell to genuine rain. Jihoon tugs up his hood and feels icy drainage pool into his boots. Shit. The road will liquidize into mud sooner rather than later. They’re minutes from safety, but the dangers of slipping grow more fraught with every step.

Mingyu’s horse teeters around a curve. With a shout he jerks her back on track, but Jihoon watches her hind leg wobble and knows she’s risking injury. 

A murky fog rises like steam around their hoods. The path finally tapers off in front of a stone cabin, more shack than home, where dark ivy obscures a halfway-shattered window. Quickly they pull both gasping horses into the adjacent stable.

“Brrr,” Mingyu says, shaking out his dripping hair. He gives Jihoon a shy, victorious smile. 

Jihoon unhooks the bag of salted hay from his pack and shoves it into Mingyu’s chest. “That was too close.”

“But we made it.” Mingyu threads his fingers through the tangled mane of his horse. A clap of thunder startles them both, the whites of their eyes flashing identically in the gloom. 

Jihoon tends to his horse and sinks into the relief of habitual movements. He and Mingyu are accustomed to working together like this, unstrapping saddles and passing cloth back and forth, though usually accompanied by the chatter of a dozen other Hwarang. He deeply misses the gossip around which meat they will have for dinner at the castle—tonight they’ll subsist on dried venison,  _ again _ .

“The emperor will be disappointed,” Mingyu remarks. “I promised to return by sunset.”

He steps into the doorway of the stable and peers into the forest, his silhouette a shadow overlaying shadows. The reminder of Emperor Junhui makes Jihoon wince. It’s true the emperor will be disappointed—in Mingyu. He will be casually disinterested in Jihoon, as always.

“We can leave as soon as the storm breaks,” Jihoon says, hearing the gruffness in his own voice. 

The door of the cabin is lacquered shut with a pungent mixture of dust and sap. Maintenance scouts rarely make it out this far during their rounds, so Jihoon is unsurprised to find the singular room stale and sparsely furnished. A fireplace is half unstacked in the corner. At least it’s dry.

Mingyu accidentally slams the door when a flash of lightning makes him jump. He moves like he’s already an inch out of his skin, uncomfortably quick. Jihoon’s first order of business is to unwrap dry flint and light the candles on the mantle top. He lays his sword carefully on the table and thinks, Mingyu is scared.

It’s not often he sees one of his fellow Hwarang show fear. And this is  _ Mingyu _ . The tallest and bravest of the cohort.

Jihoon can’t help himself. “Have you never seen a storm before?”

Mingyu’s mouth draws into a tight line. His complexion gives him away, tinged pink despite the insistent chill. He sets his sword beside Jihoon’s, bending into his space to do so, and for a moment they are close enough to touch.

“Of course I have,” Mingyu mumbles. “But I’m not usually caught outside.”

“We’re safe here,” Jihoon says. It feels important that Mingyu knows that. There is no danger here that Jihoon can’t fight off. 

They lapse into silence while shedding the wet outer layers of their clothing. Robes are hung beside the fireplace. Jihoon rubs his palms together, blows into them gently, and kindles the fire. The sound of rain diminuendos in time with the wind. When Jihoon is finished, Mingyu tosses him a chunk of dried meat. Funny how even salt loses its flavor after days on the road. 

Despite the fire, it’s not warm enough. Sharp candlelight puts Mingyu’s nerves on display. He twitches when thunder booms. His hands keep a tremor even after holding both palms flat toward the flames, as if making an offering. The valley of his mouth, so expressive and—dare Jihoon say alluring—is twisted into unhappiness. 

Jihoon surprises himself. He presses a hand to the cold ground beside his own hip. “Come sit by me,” he says. “The draft is weaker here.”

Mingyu’s face softens. He moves closer and draws a long sip of water from his flask.

His body should be a mountain on this cramped floor, but Mingyu is an expert at diminishing himself. Jihoon subconsciously straightens to Mingyu’s eye-level, unwilling to be looked down upon when unnecessary, but Mingyu has already shifted his shoulders to neutralize the distance. They share the blanket easily.

It’s a small consideration, but it goes straight to Jihoon’s heart. 

“Do you believe,” Mingyu says suddenly, startling Jihoon out of his observations. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “If we died away from the castle. Do you believe Junhui would come for us himself?”

There is an answer Mingyu wants to hear, so Jihoon gives it to him.

“Yes,” he says. “The emperor would not leave us.”

“If we froze to death here—“

“We won’t.” Jihoon lays a hand on Mingyu’s thigh. 

He means to be comforting, but Mingyu goes shockingly still. Jihoon can count the long spiky eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. Mingyu is looking at the fingers on his thigh when he says, “You’re right. I shouldn’t worry so much, I sound like Seungkwan.”

A double flash of lightning staccatos across the window. Mingyu recoils, bumping his shoulder with Jihoon’s, and reflexively Jihoon curls his fingers tighter into the meat of Mingyu’s thigh. Mingyu shivers.

Faraway wind rattles in the eaves. Mingyu’s eyes are liquid soft when he turns to Jihoon.

“Could we sleep like this?” he whispers.

“Like what?” Jihoon asks, though he can imagine it well: curled together like intimate ivy.

The surprise is that Mingyu asked at all. Jihoon knows Mingyu has been accused of cockiness, but he sees the confidence for what it is: practiced. An act of service for the emperor. Mingyu plays the part of a perfect Hwarang to show that he’s capable and competent—to show that with Mingyu, Junhui is safe.

Jihoon has long thought that all Hwarang ought to do what Mingyu does. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and broken down by the calamitous weather, is like catching sight of him naked in the barracks. Off-putting. Intimate. 

Hypnotizing. 

Mingyu parts his lips but hesitates to speak. He covers Jihoon’s hand with his own, tan skin against milk-white fingers, and leans his weight gently on Jihoon’s shoulder. They are pressed brightly together from knee to shoulder. He feels when Mingyu shivers again, rooted deeper this time.

Jihoon looks over through his peripherals. “If this would make you comfortable,” he acknowledges.

Anything which would make you comfortable, he doesn’t say.

“Will you take the first watch?” Mingyu looks up through his bangs.

Jihoon nods. “Go on. Try to rest.”

“It may be too cold.” Mingyu blinks.

“Hence the blanket.”

He doesn’t entirely understand what Mingyu wants until Mingyu lays down and shuffles shoulders-first into Jihoon’s lap with a contented sigh. One thick arm curls over Jihoon’s legs. Like this, Jihoon’s figure shields Mingyu from the draft and lightning flashes both. His hand settles naturally in the dip of Mingyu’s spine, where his robes are threadbare and glowing with warmth.

It’s too intimate an embrace for people who have sworn fealty to another. The commandments of the Hwarang demand loving Junhui more than yourself, more than your family, more than the gods. Jihoon casts his eyes to the damp rafters and wonders if he would be banished for feeling what he does for Mingyu now. If anyone knew—

He screws his eyes shut. It can’t be helped. Mingyu will return to Junhui’s bed, where he is required, and Jihoon will make room in his heart for two objects of worship, which he will deny out loud. But what is love if not devotion? What is love if not, I will die for you no matter the blade?

And it’s okay, because Jihoon would die for the emperor. Almost  _ did  _ die for the emperor, when a raid left a gash like the scrape of an enormous fang across his abdomen.

Mingyu is not the one who found him bleeding out in the weeds—that was Seungcheol—but Mingyu is the one who came to visit Jihoon when he woke up, held a wooden bowl of soup to his mouth so that he could eat, even when the healer was perfectly capable of doing so herself. It was strange to be taken care of by a younger man. It was… nice.

What is devotion if not that?

When he thinks back on his life, Jihoon can pinpoint that moment—wooden bowl of soup at his lips—as the catalyst for things changing between himself and Mingyu. The raising of a second pedestal in his heart. Gold wreath for the emperor. Gold wreath for the Hwarang.

Jihoon sits through the worst of the storm, wide awake, listening to dying gasps of the fire before it whispers out. An hour or two have passed by the time Mingyu stirs against his thigh and makes a soft, unhappy noise. He reacts to the cold like a street dog desperate for shelter.

Jihoon moves his hand politely to Mingyu’s shoulder. “The fire,” he whispers. “I have to get more wood.”

He isn’t expecting a quick response. Mingyu takes his time rolling sideways, extracting his face from Jihoon’s lap, twitching under the blanket when rain slaps particularly hard against the roof.

Quickly Jihoon rekindles the fire. He’s starting to feel exhausted, eyes gritty and spine sore from sitting up straight. Resigning himself to a long night rather than inconvenience Mingyu, he returns to his perch on the mat. 

But a hand snakes out and wraps around Jihoon’s wrist. The candles have blown out, and with only one source of light the shadows are unreliable. For a moment Jihoon thinks he imagines the feeling of hot fingers on his skin.

“You need to rest, too.” Mingyu’s voice emerges raspy and thick from the darkness. 

“I will tomorrow.”

“Now. We’re alone here, it’s okay.”

Mingyu tugs to punctuate his words. Jihoon should be irritated by that petulance—but in this case he’s tired, endeared, and willing to indulge himself. Once can’t hurt. No one will find them here.

Carefully Jihoon shuffles down to lie beside Mingyu. They breathe in tandem for several agonizing, uncertain seconds before Mingyu moves into his space. Jihoon gets embraced sideways, an arm over his abdomen, a forehead pressed to his shoulder, legs tangled with his. Their inner robes fall open. Skin-on-skin electricity feeds between them. For the first time all night, he is warm.

Mingyu takes a shallow breath, audible between gushes of wind and rain. “Hyung,” he says.

“What?”

“ _ Jihoonie _ .”

Jihoon turns to him with every intention of snapping _what_ again, but his patience rebounds twofold when he gets a good look at Mingyu’s face. His eyes are heavy and dark, not at all the frightened and shrinking pupils from earlier. He’s looking at Jihoon’s mouth a breath away from his own. He’s tilting his chin up so sweetly…

Like he is about to kiss Jihoon.

But later—if the emperor asks who started it—

Jihoon moves first. He takes Mingyu by the face and kisses him. It’s so easy to mold his hands around Mingyu’s jaw. So easy to shift his weight and roll until they’re chest-to-chest. Big hands cup his waist as Mingyu sighs into the wet exchange of kisses, sugary and malleable. So this is what Junhui’s been getting. No wonder.

Soft, intimate sounds drown out the droning rain. Through the thin fabric of their robes, Jihoon can feel Mingyu’s heart pounding in his chest. He tastes, impossibly, like spiced apple with an undercurrent of something darker and purer. Something  _ Mingyu _ . It’s intoxicating. 

Jihoon swipes his tongue along Mingyu’s bottom lip and swallows his moan—oh, how responsive and eager he is. He tilts into Jihoon’s grip, soft in all the right places. Mouth so tender and slow. Jihoon settles comfortably into the space Mingyu invites him into, like he fits.

If he knew it would be like this, he might’ve cracked long ago.

Jihoon pulls away to kiss down the gorgeous column of Mingyu’s throat, sensing his lifeblood jump beneath his lips. Mingyu makes a trembling noise when Jihoon snakes a hand under his robes and palms the firm muscles of his abdomen. Now that he’s started touching, he can’t stop.

He wishes he could leave a bruise, could make this night permanent with his bare hands, but Junhui would take one look and  _ know.  _ Might still take one look at the derangement in Jihoon’s face and  _ know _ . Desire this strong should be granted physicality. It should make his hands sticky with longing for weeks afterward. He wants proof.

Mingyu’s hips jerk impatiently upward. Hard in all the right places.

Jihoon rears back, mouth wet with spit, to take stock of the situation. How much is he allowed to borrow? What can he steal away without incurring Junhui’s later suspicion? He feels like a dragon off the leash, rabid at the first sight of blood. 

Mingyu treats his sword like an extension of his own body, which is to say—with reverence, with grace. Jihoon wonders if he treats his lovers the same. Jihoon desperately wants to find out.

For a moment it looks like Mingyu is watching these thoughts pass like clouds over Jihoon’s face, chest heaving, but the light flickers and Jihoon realizes Mingyu is still staring at his spit-slick mouth. He wipes his face self-consciously.

“You look good,” Mingyu murmurs. He punctuates this with a shy, slow roll of his hips that sends sparks up Jihoon’s spine. 

An alarming crack echoes over the rain. It’s probably a tree in the process of splitting. Jihoon’s thighs tense as he considers getting up to check the window, confirm their safety—but Mingyu’s hands slide up his legs and bunch possessively in the fabric of his robes. However this started, as a pretense to keep warm or the inevitable crossroads of mutual attraction, it doesn’t seem to matter now. They’re here.

Jihoon covers Mingyu’s hands and holds tight. Mingyu worries his flush bottom lip between his teeth and asks, “Will you touch me?”

There is an answer Mingyu wants to hear, so Jihoon gives it to him.

“Yes.” Slowly, tenderly, Jihoon lowers himself back on top of Mingyu. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.”

Mingyu’s eyes go flat and bottomless. “Show me.”

So he does.

Jihoon would die for the emperor, but he wouldn’t touch anyone else like this. Only Mingyu. What he would do for Mingyu— _ to _ Mingyu—borders on holy. It’s a completely different worship than the type he offers Junhui. 

To love someone is to make them divine, he thinks, as he peels fabric away from Mingyu’s golden skin. 

Mingyu moans like he’s fucking starving when Jihoon gets his hands around him. Maybe he is starving. Maybe it’s been a few long, cold weeks without the right kind of company, and he’s needy. The concept of Mingyu lying awake under the stars next to Jihoon and  _ yearning _ —that flushes heat through Jihoon’s whole body.

Mingyu should never be lonely. He should never be left wanting.

A blind eye is turned toward the dagger hanging by a thread above their bodies. The shadow of the emperor exits the room. Here, no one else is allowed. Only the slick, whining sounds between their bodies, the click of a tiny clay pot opening and closing. Mingyu endeavors to drown out the storm, keening like a broken man when Jihoon enters him, and Jihoon is so startled at first that he freezes. Horrified, thinking something’s gone wrong and he’s hurt Mingyu.

“Don’t move,” Mingyu pants. “I, I just need—“

Jihoon tugs Mingyu up by the base of the neck and kisses him. With his other hand he reaches down between their torsos. Filthy, sucking kisses make Mingyu hitch a whine and melt backwards. Tension eaks from his spine. Jihoon scratches through his hair gently and lowers him, glassy-eyed, back to the mat. A hush falls over their knotted bodies. 

Now that Mingyu is relaxed, Jihoon can continue. 

If he only gets to have this once, he’ll make it so goddamn good that Mingyu will never forget. Jihoon peppers his face in kisses, a tender contradiction to the way his hips begin stirring. He wants to draw out every secret noise Mingyu is capable of making, wants to make him cry with pleasure and collect the tears on the pad of his thumb. Mingyu throws his head back, jaw tense, like he can hear Jihoon’s thoughts. Jihoon takes advantage of the position to lick up his bared neck.

No marks. He only leaves behind what can be washed away tomorrow morning. 

During a particularly loud crash of thunder, Mingyu cringes and sits up on his elbows. Through messy, sweaty bangs, he looks up and Jihoon reads the frustration in his eyes before he can verbalize it.

“Here.” Jihoon pulls away and settles back, opening his arms. “Like this.”

Mingyu is more than familiar with the position. His face goes slack with light—appreciation or relief, some mix of the two Jihoon can’t name—before he climbs into Jihoon’s lap and pushes aside the last clinging shreds of his robe. 

Like this they’re even closer, Jihoon’s neck tilted back so they can kiss with tongue. Mingyu does most of the work. Jihoon encourages him with gentle rocking movements, both feet planted for purchase, and nips along his bottom lip and jaw. Mingyu’s breathing goes shallow as he picks up the pace. 

Jihoon thinks, if anything should happen to him tomorrow, at least he has this view now—Mingyu in his lap, flushed pink, lashes bent in ecstasy. This is worth any blade.

Afterwards, they curl together under the singular blanket. Mingyu’s arms link around Jihoon’s waist, warm and gummy with affection. The storm has broken and a brightening sky is visible through the window. Jihoon can physically feel the entrancement of nighttime slipping under the horizon. Their tryst is over. 

Jihoon falls asleep instantly against Mingyu’s side. When sunlight strikes his face, hours later, he trips out of sleep with one sure thought—Mingyu is no longer there. The mat is empty. His shoulders and thighs throb with soreness.

Daylight transfigures the storehouse. Mold blooms like dandelions in every corner. Reeking ash combats the dew. Their swords are the most valuable items in the room by far, and Jihoon is momentarily disgusted by what he did in such an unhygienic location before thinking to look for Mingyu. The spell is certainly broken.

He doesn’t need to go far. The front door is propped open and a cheerful parade of ants twine through the vines over the window. Faint whistling leads Jihoon to the stables. Mingyu is crouched beside his horse, inspecting her leg, while she chews the remnants of an apple. He hasn’t noticed Jihoon yet, so there’s a short opportunity to stop and admire him openly—for what might be the last time.

Because they will never have another morning like this. Jihoon belongs to the emperor, and Mingyu belongs to Junhui, and the whole world belongs to Emperor Junhui if he really thinks about it. There is no future where their devotion to each other doesn’t endanger their highest god.

If there were a sword held to Mingyu’s throat, and a sword held to Junhui’s throat at the same moment on the other side of the room, would Jihoon survive the choice? No.

Mingyu turns and sees him standing in the sun. He shades his eyes and smiles. “You’re awake.”

“Good morning,” Jihoon says, for lack of anything better.

“We should leave soon. It’s well past dawn.”

“Would you like to eat first?”

Mingyu’s eyes crinkle when he looks at Jihoon. The hint of a smile never leaves his mouth. “No, I borrowed an apple. Do you want one?”

Jihoon declines. They pack their bags, saddle up the horses, and pull their sheathes tight to their waist. The feel of a sword within reach is grounding. It reminds him of his responsibilities.

Their quiet companionship should feel different now, more layered, but in a way it’s simpler than ever before. Peaceful, if resigned. No touches linger. Jihoon doesn’t know if Mingyu is watching him because he is not watching back.

As they’re leaving, Jihoon hesitates in the doorway. He looks between the shoddy mat and Mingyu. He thinks of the broken way Mingyu called his name last night.

In the dwindling moments of their moment, Mingyu follows his gaze. “Does this change anything?”

“No,” Jihoon says.

What he means is no, because I don’t want to lose you. What Mingyu hears is no, because I don’t want you. Jihoon can tell by the way his expression falls. That is simply unacceptable. 

Mingyu nods once and starts to walk away, but Jihoon snags his elbow. “Wait.”

“There is nothing you have to explain,” Mingyu says quietly.

Jihoon holds him in place for a moment, greedy, memorizing the way light threads his hair with gold. His beauty is so generous. Jihoon runs his palm up Mingyu’s bicep, over his shoulder, to palm at his covered collarbones. 

“One more,” Jihoon pleads, and Mingyu meets him in the middle. 

One last kiss. One last precious moment of the life Jihoon almost wishes he could lead—just him and Mingyu in the middle of the woods, lips swollen from kisses, eyes swollen with too much sleepy joy. Jihoon allows Mingyu to card his hands through his hair. He sinks into the embrace of the man he loves. 

One of the men he loves, anyway. 

They don’t look at each other as they prepare to ride. Mounting the horses, Jihoon’s eye is caught by an abnormal shape in his periphery. A snapped tree—likely the one they heard break last night—is keeled over, its spire embedded in the dirt. It’s an ugly sight.

As he is distracted, Mingyu pulls up on horseback right beside him and reaches for Jihoon’s hand. Surprised, Jihoon turns. He watches in rapture as Mingyu brings his knuckles to his mouth and kisses them one by one.

“Thank you for keeping me warm,” Mingyu says, hesitating for a hundred years before releasing his hand. He turns the horse westward and embarks at a trot. 

Heart wavering, Jihoon follows. A hot flush spreads down his chest and lingers. He doesn’t look back, but he holds the memory of the storehouse and the fallen tree in his mind all day, long after Mingyu is summoned to the emperor’s bedchambers once again. 

Jihoon waits for the next storm to brew.

**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/klavvrites)


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